When Ocean Vuong spoke of Eduardo Corral's line in a recent interview, moss grows along the tree like applause it clapped, it surged upward in silent ovation, a green thunder rolling slow across bark, each spore a tiny hand raised with wonder. In that instant, the shame I have at times carried about my writing dissolved like mist under sudden sun. For years, writing has come to me the way a child presses his face to the glass of a world that has no ready words.

Every December, like clockwork, the discourse fires up again: "Christmas is actually pagan!" Someone's uncle shares a documentary. A friend posts about Saturnalia. Your social media feed erupts with claims about Sol Invictus and Yule logs. And honestly? I'm tired of it. Not because the conversation isn't worth having, but because we're asking the wrong questions entirely.